


wasuremono

by vegetas



Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: (n) lost article, thing left behind





	wasuremono

逢ふことも　過失のひとつ　薄暑光

Aukotomo/ Kashitsu no hitotsu/ Hakusho-kou

  
Meeting is  
One of the accidents.  
The sunshine at the beginning of the summer.

_Ootaka Sho (1977 - )_

 

The curse could have been broken for two hundred years and the main house would still have the same peculiar atmosphere.

_“Ah, he’s back you know…that boy.”_

The two old maids held their hands to their mouths as he gathered the instruments back into his kit. There wasn’t any caution in their voices; they meant for him to hear everything.

He didn’t give the remark much pause. His thoughts were too intent on what more there was to be done in the coming weeks. The new regiment he was prescribing Akito was proving quite effective and he was eager to see more results.

Her health would never be picturesque, but even Hatori had to admit his relief and approval at her progress. Her strength came and went - it was to be expected – and they both understood that Hatori wasn’t unkind when he told her to have realistic expectations for herself.

That aside, it was strange to give her such simple advice now and celebrate the small progresses.

Proper diet. Exercise. Fresh air. Sleep. Vitamins.

These days she was an excellent patient who participated in her examinations with great interest – even enthusiasm.

“ _Ah,_ ” she said breathlessly, looking down at the number centered between her toes. “ _I’ve gained another kilo…”_

She still had to use his arm to balance herself as she stepped down from the scale, but her cheeks were blotchy with color. She complained about heart palpitations. A fit of sneezing earlier in the day. A strange soreness in her legs.

Nothing to concern herself over, he soothed. She’d grown very quiet at that time, and he assumed it to be fatigue and chose not to say much else to disturb her. She watched for a while, him notating things in his heinous doctor’s scrawl, pausing only when he felt her hand cover his to still the pen.

“Hatori…” she began. “I want to tell you…”

“You have apologized several times,” he said, looking at her and then back down to her chart. “There isn’t any need to exhaust it, or yourself for that matter.”

Her hand remained over his and he felt the stillness overtake him as a result. He didn’t wish to upset her, or even confound her. He tried to be tender with her. He, too, was very tired of it all.

Akito said nothing for a moment and then, suddenly, she gave him a blinding smile.

“You really are that kind of person, aren’t you, Hatori?” she laughed to herself and Hatori looked dimly at her, brow furrowing. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Ah, it really did suit you. I understand what Shigure meant.” Her eyes were happy moons in her face, small and bright. 

“Whatever it was Shigure told you should be immediately dismissed,” Hatori said briskly and this only served to make her giggle more.

“Ne, should I whisper it to you, Hatori, in your ear?” she laughed, and she raised her hands to beckon him down to her and for a moment he nearly allowed his head to tilt towards hers – as though she was still a little child and he had to bend and hear her secret -

They both stopped, looking frankly at each other. Her face went hard and pale.

“You know, you’re very handsome, Hatori,” she said, and her voice was the whispering, nimble creature he was used to. She stood from the chair, gripping the back of it. She glanced at the floor and not at him, toeing her feet more into her sandals “It's a shame you don't show it off. You could easily get a girlfriend."

She gave him pause to retort, but he didn't take it. She flicked her gaze up him and down again. 

"You should cut your hair back more, so people can see your eyes better. I’ve always thought they were your best feature.”

Hatori wouldn’t allow himself to be harrowed by the words, or her vexation with her new lack of authority, but the place that had been carved out from him throbbed. It was difficult, at times, to believe that things were different. She still had the ability to pluck on their hearts with that sharp, deadly accuracy. But, then, they had known each other and that was what struck Hatori as the most ridiculous part. No matter curses, or cures, even though she had been cruel, even vicious, they knew each other intimately. What more was there when people were left alone with each other?  
  
They couldn’t help but know what would hurt the most, would wound the best.  
  
Vice versa, he reminded himself.

“I think I’ll take a rest with the screen open,” Akito mused, knowing she'd said enough. She straightened herself, tuggiing on her fussy, dollish blouse. She looked out the window as she left the room. Hatori finally lifted his head more and watched her skinny shoulders rise with a deep breath. “That’s good for one’s health, ne Hatori?”

Hatori clicked his pen and swung his head back down to her chart.

“It’s fine for the afternoon, but don’t keep it open too often this time of year. It will irritate your sinuses.”

“Yes, it is getting warm, isn’t it?”

She bowed to him, hands on her knees.

Today’s words were a departure from the usual script. He was so used to hearing her lament her misdeeds that it nearly became a new annoyance – a new kind of cruelty. It was oddly funny to hear her be what Shigure would honestly refer to as a bitch. 

But even she was growing – it was literal. Her world was expanding and she was learning what to offer another person, or, at least, she tried. Even the jagged complement about his eyes, as deliberate as he knew it was, held a seed of ernesty.

The fleeting image of Tohru waved across his mind, flowery and peaceful.

He felt his anxiety lessen at the thought, and listened to Akito’s footsteps fall away, taking her somewhere else. When he looked up again she was gone, and he felt the breath loosen from his chest where it clenched like a fist.

That boy, the maids said. _That boy_ was back. He gathered his things, folded the file and slid the pen back into the loop of his leather-bound case.

He ignored the remark, zipping his kit, snapping the latches in place.

The words were meaningless, and clearly not about him.

Hatori was never coming or going.

He straightened his clothes and checked his watch and politely excused himself from the two old women who bowed and cooed at his manners. Hatori-sensei, so polite, and so steadfast. What a devoted cousin and friend to Akito-sama.  A true testament to the Sohma, despite the _unusual_ circumstances they all found themselves to be in. So noble, so handsome, so undaunted.

These words were all said to the sound of him carefully sliding the door closed behind him, sealing them inside.  


* * *

  
June was crawling slowly over the estate. Hatori’s car was smudged green with the last streaks of spring pollen and the tired fragrance of cherry blossoms haloed the grounds, but slowly it would relent and give itself over. The trees would deepen into their velvety summer leaves, drooping in the heat that was already creeping up from that nameless somewhere Akito mentioned.

He stepped carefully over a swarm of ants muddling the path, the mass of them crowding over a dead grasshopper.

He was feeling foolish. It had been a few days since he’d overheard the maids and still the statement turned over in his brain. Distantly, he knew it was impolite to eavesdrop, even more to entertain the gossip, and consequently useless to dwell on all of it for longer than a moment.

At first he thought perhaps Yuki, or Hatsuharu. Hiro was still only a high school student and he saw him often enough. Hatori was frequently at his home to check on his younger sister. She would be three soon, he reminded himself.

Then, he thought it could be Kyo - but if it had been Kyo Tohru would have telephoned, or sent a card. There was no way she could keep something like a visit a secret… 

He adjusted his hand in his pocket, fiddling with his house keys absently. Shade fell over the path and he rounded the familiar curve towards his home, pressed modestly back against the high perimeter fence that clasped them all inside. He glanced at it – his house - and noticed the bamboo on the other side of the rock garden wall was growing weedy at the top. It was sticking up in a fray of unsightly jutting, grassy leaves.

He stopped, dark leather shoes scuffling in the gravel. His leather doctor’s kit swung in his grip, bumping his leg. For a moment he could not move and the world seemed to hang in place, dangling like a ripe peach about to fall. The maple tree beside his house had two birds nesting in it and the male circled excitedly, squalling at him for trespassing so close.

He wondered, afraid to commit to the thought entirely.

Slowly, he regained use of himself. He adjusted the bag’s firm handle in his hand and then stepped up onto the porch.  


* * *

  
“Hatori-sama,” the man was bowing so deeply. His hand was on his son’s back. He stayed bent over like that for much longer than necessary, and his voice was stilted and nervous. It was terribly embarrassing.

“I cannot thank you enough for looking after Momiji. You’ve showed our family so much care…”

“Please,” Hatori said, poorly feigning modesty. “No need for apologies.” His voice was too bland to be believable.

Hatori’s eye ached under the bandage. It had been a few weeks, but it still pained him a great deal. Several times a day he had to remove the dressing and place drops in it, which stung and made him weepy. He knew he could spare himself more of the discomfort, but he avoided pain medication.

The dizziness made him feel tired and like his limbs were growing out of his clothes.

Besides, it would compromise his mind, and if Akito needed tending to…

His head throbbed, and he struggled to focus on the little boy. The father straightened, finally, to his intense relief.

“Momiji is a very well-mannered child,” the man boasted, trying to ease the awkwardness of the situation. “He can do most things himself and won’t be in your way.”

He held his son’s shoulders and looked around the room. “I’m glad he’ll be able to stay in such a traditional Japanese household! You have such a tasteful style of decorating…”

“Certainly,” Hatori murmured, half paying attention. He knew that he couldn’t provide the most stimulating environment for a child, but, it had already been decided.

The boy would be with him for a few weeks while the house his father was renovating was finished.

It was a poorly kept secret that Momiji was being shuffled sheepishly between several cousins, but it appeared that his father was preparing a final, more permanent residence. Hatori was, undoubtedly, the last resort on a roster of these caretakers. The situation reeked of Akito.

“I’m afraid that your timing isn’t ideal,” Hatori sighed, blinking his good eye several times. “On a better day I wouldn’t have much more energy to spare, but at this particular time I am spread quite thin. There won’t be much personal attention,” he glanced to the boy, who was looking at the floor.

He was very small for his age, but children of the rabbit were often so.  He wouldn’t be surprised if he went mostly through high school without a growth spurt. His ears were red and his mouth was a somber line across his otherwise cherubic features. He had not changed much since the last time Hatori had seen him. Then he had been even tinier, even frailer. There was something terribly naked about him. Maybe it was his fair hair, Hatori thought. He looked vulnerable, spindly and blonde like a little puppet.

At the time he had not cared enough to notice. He did not care to notice anything back then, he reminded himself.

“However, my housekeeper should be able to meet any of his needs. She’s a responsible woman,” Hatori amended, and Momiji’s eyes flicked up to his face.

“Of course,” the man gushed.

“Ne, ne, Hatori-san,” Momiji said, startling both of them. His voice was flute like and climbing with every word. Hatori could see the blurry shape of his serious expression as it melted into a gentle glow. There was the vague crescent of a smile curling across his face that was quickly becoming a moony grin. “Is it true? Is your form really like _that_?”

The father looked at his son in horror, and then up to where Hatori stood. He opened his mouth to say something but the child’s face went from grinning to a rounded ‘o’ of excited curiosity.

“Did Kana-chan really throw you in the bath tub-?!”

Hatori’s stomach dropped to his feet. His throat was thick and he couldn’t swallow correctly to say anything.

 “He’s at a very presumptuous age! My sincerest apologies –!” The man was scrambling to literally cover his boy’s mouth and Momiji whined in surprise, still staring at his cousin.

Hatori looked away from the two people, desperate to escape the room and the stifling atmosphere of his own awkwardness.

Momiji wrenched his father’s hand from his mouth, pried the fingers out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat desperately. “I’m sorry! I thought it was a joke! I’m sorry! Hatori-san is so cool, so I only thought - !” The boy’s words feathered into white noise.

Hatori felt the room sway, sloshing from side to side in a wave-like roll.

“Pardon me,” he said in a soft whisper. His hand came to cradle his head, which was buzzing. “Please excuse me, my injury is giving me a great deal of pain.”  


* * *

  
Hatori looked solemnly at the thermometer kept on the porch, trying to decipher its incorrigibly small lines and numbers. Whatever the exact reading, he was disappointed to find the temperature hadn’t risen as much as he’d expected. He could tell at least that just by squinting a bit.

He was certain it was the upward climb of the weather that was making him feel unsettled. Hot climates had the tendency to make him feel tired and uneasy. He was sure that was why he had come down with a bout of what his housekeeper ritually referred to as melancholia.

She was, rightfully, of the opinion that Hatori-san was a chronic sufferer and mandated the usual: strong herbal baths and rest until his temperament had recovered.

Hatori knew better than to ignore her demands these days – her age required a guilty kind of going-along with such things. She’d been his housekeeper as long as he’d _had_ his house. He couldn’t imagine a morning where he didn’t see his suit neatly hung on the outside of the closet door for him, even on days like these where he chose to ignore it and decided to shuffle into his slippers instead. It was the most he could do to heed her advice and please her.

He dragged himself restlessly outside his bedroom, thinking he might have another bath or try again to find a book to quell the restless roll of his stomach. He didn’t want anything to eat; he’d been surviving on cigarettes and black tea for days now – ignoring food unless he was made to nibble at it. His hair hung lank over his bad eye and he let it be. Maybe he’d sit outside and carefully snip it as he did sometimes, leaving the black hair a bundle for the birds to use.

He thought about all this as he stood in front of the mirror – he had the decency to shave. He hated the uneven shadow of his stubble. As he shaved he had to stand rather close to see clearly, and when he was done he considered himself, turning this way and that. Behind him, the mirror gazed down the half of the hallway that lead towards the back of his house.

There, to the right, near the end, was a door. Once he noticed it, he felt a though he couldn’t avoid looking at it. His hands curled over the sink, shoulders hunched forward, feet halfway out of his slippers. His yukata slipped a little at his chest as he leaned back and turned, craning his head so his good eye could look at it in all its realness.

All at once he pushed away from the sink, leaving the water still running a trickle over his razor.

He went down the hall, hand gliding along the wall the way he habitually did when he first lost his sight.

He slid the door open with a stiff _klack_.   

He stared blankly inside, unimpressed with himself. The gesture was meant to be meaningful, but there wasn’t anything outstanding. To all his knowledge, the room hadn’t been touched since the last time it’s door was shut.  

It had been used for storage for many years until the housekeeper managed to make something of it. It had, at least, forced Hatori to get rid of his older furniture and college texts to make room for the futon and bedside table and dresser. She’d even seen to unpacking all the clothes and setting out the few personal affects; figures and useless knickknacks every child acquired on their own.

It still smelled like school books…

_“It’s been set up!”_

The voice clanged like a bell, throwing a sudden and crowding light onto Hatori’s brain. Startled, he looked down, as though expecting to see something that was not there.

It was only a memory, of course.

In it he was a younger man, much younger. His vest hung open, flapping at his sides in an ill-fitted way, and he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows because of the heat that was beginning to swelter into the house. He needed to fix the fan in his office – it was becoming insufferable and it was only May. He didn’t like the noise window units made, much to his own chagrin. Sounds were more bothersome than they’d been before Kana. He liked certain degrees of quiet now, and stillness.

Momiji wriggled under Hatori’s arm, away from his side, his cousin watching as his knobby knees dropped to the carpet and he suddenly laid his face on it, rubbing. “It’s soft!” he declared, looking up for approval or agreement.

Hatori hummed, stiff, and pointed down the hall to the bath, trying to direct his attention to more pressing matters, but the child leapt to his feet again and rushed to the other side of the room.

“Hatori-san you can see the bamboo from here!” Momiji was on tip toe, looking out the small window on the back wall of the room. His chin was balanced on the sill from the strain of his eagerness. He turned over his shoulder to regard his cousin. “Do you know that story? Princess Kaguya? That’s my favorite for Papa to tell. He tells me every night – they found her all tiny in a stalk of bamboo, did you know that?”  
  
“I did,” Hatori said. “It’s an old story.” He tried to begin his explanation about the bath again.

Momiji looked back out the window and then dropped his heels to the floor, disinterested in the doctor’s dry commentary on the matter.

“The man and his wife, they wanted a baby to love so much, and one to love them back! They prayed and prayed! And one day, they got their wish, and there she was, that princess in her little bamboo stalk and the woodcutter didn’t even know – he had no idea! He just thought that it was any other day, you know?”

Hatori looked on, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he’d accidentally chopped her in half,” he said, speaking to the window. He rocked back down on his heels and turned, looking shyly at his cousin. “Wouldn’t that have been so awful? Don’t you think? Wouldn’t that be the most awful thing?”

Hatori considered it for a moment. How morbid, he thought, but…when put in such a way.  
  
“He was an old man,” he replied, putting his hands into his trouser pockets. “He was experienced. It was his livelihood... I find it very unlikely he would do something so careless.”

“Mmmm,” Momiji said, a soft smile curling over his face. His cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkled into creases.  

Hatori coughed into his fist. Come along, he said, time to see the bath.

When they got there Momiji was awe-struck at its size, the biggest he’d been in.

“Ahh!” he cried, staring at the large tub next to the little stool and shower head where Hari washed his hair. He peered into it. “I see!”

“See what,” Hatori asked, stepping in to look over the boy’s shoulder into the tub. The bottom was clean and blank.

_“I guess you could have fit in there, after all!”_

Hatori looked on for a bit longer, and shut the door to the empty room softly, turning away.  


* * *

 

“So I suppose you’ve heard,” Shigure said pleasantly enough. Hatori delicately tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette, phone still held to his ear. Shigure, on the other side of town, smiled smugly into the receiver.

“Haa-san you really are poor at bluffing…”

Hatori snorted and took another drag of his cigarette, crossing his legs neatly in his large leather office chair.

“Well, I will indulge you,” Shigure sighed. “Though I don’t believe for a moment you don’t already know, you’re an awful gossip…”

“Shigure,” Hatori said blandly, and the man waved him off with a quick yes yes.

“That strange child you’re so fond of has returned to us from far shores,” Shigure nearly yawned the words. Hatori’s brows knitted together in frustration. “I mean to say, Momiji is home for summer break. He arrived last week according to Akito…though he’s not hanging around very much. He hasn’t been by.” Shigure sounded dramatically displeased.

Hatori’s cigarette hung between his fingers.

“So did you hear or not?” Shigure teased, and Hatori ground the cigarette into the ashtray.

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Not even a little?” The words leapt out of the phone, followed by a soft, staged gasp. “Even for you Hari…”

“He hasn’t spoken to me in some time, I find it unsurprising that I wouldn’t know when he was back in Japan, or at his home for that matter.”

“Certainly not, Hatori,” Shigure said and Hatori could nearly taste the implications of his words. Hatori didn’t know what made him so unique when it came to Momiji. He’d simply done what was asked of him. It was entirely ridiculous that he was singled out either for his affection towards the child, or, more often, Momiji’s affection for him.

“He’s truly an adult now…three years away. So strange. I wonder what he looks like! He’s sent Tohru a few pictures and cards, but you can’t tell. Imagine him as tall as Kyo or even Yuki! She says his handwriting has matured too…”

Hatori didn’t know how to respond.

“Well,” Shigure announced, after prattling uselessly on, and Hatori was glad that the rambling conversation was winding to its end. “I’m sure he’ll make time to see his favorite…”

Hatori shut his eyes in irritation, but found them opening again. He felt very tired all of a sudden.

“He does need a checkup…I’m sure he hasn’t kept up with it…”

“That’s the spirit, Haa-san,” Shigure lauded, and the line went abruptly dead.

Hatori let the phone rest back on its cradle, staring out the open doors to the garden. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. The muted gray of the rocks and the sand were still and comforting. 

The cicadas made a rough, alien, sound, as though he was on another planet.   


* * *

  
Hatori, in the beginning, had gone on several dates. 

He was too ashamed to admit that most were all hopeless set-ups, but anyone who knew him might have guessed that. It was unfair, however, to ignore that he himself had sought out a few. 

Even  _Hatori_ was liberated, after all. He wasn't so proper or so afraid that he didn't want to know one way or another.

The majority of these partners had been polite, shy people - ones who would have looked as much at home with his poetry books and clay vases as he did. 

He'd met them at bars and once even at a street fair. He'd been unable to win her a goldfish, and gotten embarrassed. 

There was the repeated explanation of his eye - the cooked up story of an accident when he was in his twenties. 

The lies made him feel meek and childish. 

He took a few to bed, and called after them but they eventually fizzled out. They never outright said anything, but he could tell that they were uneasy with his reserve. 

Most he assumed found him dull, if not outright boring. 

Then again, he supposed he felt the same.  
  
None of them stuck around, and as the years went on he was reluctant to start again. 

It just felt unfair, he reasoned. Why appoint a place where there wasn't any room.  


* * *

 

  
Once, Shigure had made a frankly stupid joke (because what other sort was there for Shigure) that Hatori could conjure Momiji like a rabbit from a hat, like a magician.

Wherever Hari was, there Momiji was sure to be.

“It’s true, it’s true!” Ayame sobbed drunkenly, tapping his beer bottle on the table and leaning forward. They clunked their heads as they laughed over the evolving image of Hatori in a top hat and tails.

Hatori sipped his liquor, unphased. He didn’t drink beer as it upset his stomach.

The fools, he thought snidely, smirking.

Truthfully, Hatori didn’t know why Momiji favored his house so much; the house his father made up was far bigger and more contemporary. His was a closet in comparison. Still, faithfully, Momiji would appear – long after he had any reason to. Long after it surpassed any kind of explanation.

It was some strange habit, the two of them together. Momiji, lonely, Hatori content in his loneliness, scolding each other. Dragon, Rabbit. A designated cycle.

Momiji jumping him on Saturday mornings to take him to play, or to the movies – loud ones where he’d have to hold all the popcorn and candy and look at the awkward young lovers surrounding them and repeatedly tell Momiji to take his feet off of other people’s seats. Hatori buying Momiji’s school clothes in lieu of his father, and the embarrassment of both of them when the clerk commented on what a pretty child he had. Momiji’s constant stream of complaints that the house was too hot or too cold.

Momiji looking on curiously as Hatori dressed in the morning in his fine suits, the way he stood behind him and showed him how to tie the tie, something every man should know. Momiji asking too many questions, Momiji silent and stoic, not saying much in one of his moods.

Momiji in the bath with his feet up on the tile, head surrounded by great clouds of steam, the window slightly ajar, Hatori trimming his toenails. Momiji gazing at him with one cracked eye at the towel on his lap.

“Ne, Hatori…Shigure says that you’re small…”

The horrified look on Hatori’s face and Momiji laughing so hard, gargling on the water Hatori began to spray on his face from the showerhead saying if he ever repeated such a thing he’d start walking him to school every morning and Momiji, saying how red his face was.

He only meant his other form, what did he _think_ , and laughing so hard he had to lean against the side of the tub, his hair sticking up in a huge cowlick, all gangly limbs and Hatori sitting down heavily until so slowly his own shoulders started to shake, till he had to cover his mouth because of it and Momiji’s bright and shocked squeal.  
  
“Hari! You’re laughing! I made you laugh, didn’t I!”

Hatori having to wipe the tears from his eyes, trying to stifle it all.

“Hatori I wouldn’t really mind you walking me to school you know,” Momiji adding after a while, smiling at him. “You aren’t _that_ bad." 

Someday Momiji would outgrow that statement, Hatori figured. He was already so duplicitous - charming with that baby face and then saying such insatiable and incorrigible things. It was there, that other-wordly oldness that they all carried gleaming in his eyes.  His teachers thought it was precocious, but Hatori knew better. 

Even as he settled back into his silence, laughter subsiding. He heard Momiji's content, dramatic sigh, water sloshing a little. He knew if he looked over he'd see that he was still small in the murky, aromatic water. It seemed like he would be that way forever - an impish fairy child. There was a book there, he knew. Something catchy and tantalizing and Momiji was the main character: beautiful and cursed. Perfectly suited for it. 

But, Momiji was always just slightly out of step with the rest of them. 

Hatori himself had exchanged soft words about it... as though the walls were spying and would go tattling to Akito. 

_Are you trying to say he's less-cursed?_ Ayame said, eyes narrowing, like suddenly it was a pissing contest and he needed to make clear his own suffering. 

_I'm_ saying _that his foreign blood might have something to do with it - why he doesn't seem as close to Akito_... Shigure rumbled, drunk and grumpy.  _Hatori knows what I mean..._

 

Hatori knew what he meant. 

If it was a story, like Momiji always liked to tell, and he was the prince, then the spell was going to break. 

Hatori knew what Momiji would say about him, too. 

Well of course, Hatori - you're the dragon. 

 

* * *

 

Though he couldn’t bring himself at first, after the phone call he’d mustered a reason to go inside and look about more closely. He stood just a few feet inside the door, gazing about, feeling uncomfortable. 

The futon Momiji slept on so often was tucked and folded in a cabinet, but the table and the lamp still stood there and the curtains were half drawn. The dresser held a few books and a forgotten square of pine rosin for his bow in a neat cardboard case. Along the way it had all evolved. Momiji’s tastes had come and gone, objects traded for others. Clothes and CDs where soft toys used to lie. A stack of movies Hatori was too old to recognize leaned against a wall.

_“Haaaari,”_ Momiji would squall, unable to find anything among his videos to suit his tastes. “These are so _boring_!” Momiji’s legs splayed in a messy ‘m’ on the mat, the tv-cabinet thrown open, neat drawers undone.

Hatori, not even looking up from his book, mumbling around his cigarette.

_“Kurasawa-sensei is a master. You could use a little culture…”_

Once upon a time the heavy set had been replaced by another, new model, for the tv cabinet and the reject was carried in here. It was filmed with dust now, dragged to a corner. The radio sat on the floor, close to where Momiji’s head would have gone, the cord coiled behind it and tucked like a tail. At night Hatori would hear it on the classical station as he fell asleep.

An old pair of his slippers sat next to the dresser. They’d never gotten him his own. Over all the years Momiji never bothered him to ask.

Peering around at all the clutter, he didn’t know what he was looking for.

The Housekeeper had shut it up on her own, and now Hatori could see she’d kept it just the same as the last time Momiji’d set a foot inside, as though she expected that he wouldn’t be away long. All that time – four years, Hatori amended – it, like him, had just gone on existing.   


* * *

 

The little boy followed him around for nearly a month, hanging on his shadow. He would peer curiously over his shoulder in his office, and stare boldly at him during the meals they found themselves sharing. He asked personal, improper questions and waited with a stern and excited expression for the doctor’s clinical response. He talked over Hatori’s collection of dry black and white samurai films and complained that he needed to get something with action in it. He bossed Hatori around about how he spoke and what subjects he brought up and what music he liked (the same old-fashioned kind as everything Hatori enjoyed).

Hatori, your house is too quiet – Hatori-sama you need _flowers_ not a yard full of _sand_. Hari, don’t you listen to anything other than operas?

Hatori couldn’t even get him started on how much he hated natto, which was the only thing he could cook other than steamed vegetables and scrambled eggs.

They were kin. It wasn’t difficult to get used to their rhythms.

_Like a dance_ , Hatori thought. He blanched. In only a few years they’d have to don those outlandish outfits. His head throbbed at the thought of trying to wrangle Momiji into the idea of practicing or standing still to fix all the fussy bells and charms.

“Hatori-san, do you dislike me?” Momiji would say, leaning over the table, sleeve in his plate.

No, of course not. How could he dislike him? He pitied him – he felt unsettled by him.

“Your sleeve,” Hatori would say, and then resume eating his food. He had to worry about all of this. It was, to him, his responsibility now.

After all, Hatori had done something unforgiveable. He had left him half an orphan. Hatori was the reason he was dragged between all these rooms like an old unwanted desk. He’d paid for it dearly, but the reminder now not only ached under the bandages but haunted his footsteps. Every time he caught Momiji’s eye he couldn’t help but consider what he’d done - how terrible and cruel. To put someone deliberately into such a situation. 

He didn’t understand why Momiji wasn’t bitter with him. Hatori was long-used to receiving the hatred of his family. Yuki, spoiled, refused to forgive him and gave off the impression of putting up with him out of necessity. He didn’t spend time with many of the others. Kyo, of course, was more than happy to remark about how old, degenerate, and awful Hatori was when given the chance, which was fine as Hatori wasn't overly fond of him either. 

But Momiji? He didn’t know. At times he was suspicious, but of what? That this _child_ would someday turn on him? Leave him? It was ridiculous to imagine it would happen, let alone impact him. He was just his caretaker, a glorified babysitter. 

The rope that bound them together was rotten.   


 

 

 

* * *

 

  
Hatori bowed over the examination table, a hand pressed furiously to his eye.

If he could only find some relief for a few moments, and gather himself again. If he could shut the pain tightly away in a box, let the chill numb him again, then it would be bearable.

“Ne, Hatori-san!” a tug on his slacks, and he looked down, tears streaming under the patch at the little boy. His hand unfurled and held the drops out for him.

“Thank you,” Hatori said, slowly taking it. He peeled the dressing tape back and tipped his head. He was very good at it now.

“Does it hurt badly still?”

“Yes.”

Hatori forced the scarred, tight, skin of his lid to blink.

Momiji’s soft downy blonde head leaned against his waist. His arms wound around what parts he could manage.

He couldn’t recall the last time he was touched like that by someone other than Akito. Ayame was busy nowadays and never came around to hang on him, and Shigure…he had moved out to the woods. Only Hatori stayed, dependable Hatori, regimenting his routine to keep everything managed.

Except, of course, for the child wrapped around his middle, squeezing him so tightly, clinging for both of their sakes.

“For me, too,” Momiji said, and Hatori, in a moment of weakness, felt for the child’s head. He stroked his hair, and felt for the side of his face, touched the hot sticky tears. He didn’t ask him where he’d known to look for the drops, or why he had been watching him.

That was the first time he felt struck by it, like an axe. 

Love couldn't be painless for a Sohma. 

 

* * *

 

Ayame always said it had an odor, something he could taste in the air when he caught his tongue between his pearly teeth. _How reptilian of you, Aya_ Shigure would cough, laughing into the cuff of his schoolboy’s uniform, slick and oily black like his hair which always seemed to Hatori slicker and blacker than ordinary hair.

Animal, Hatori would think, plainly. That’s all it is, this curse.

In the corner of his eye Ayame fussed with his braid, picking split ends, lunch untouched.

_Beastly_ , he said, and Hatori realized that he must have spoken the thought out loud, or at least partially. Ayame couldn’t read his thoughts – not yet – but he was well versed in embellishing Hatori’s otherwise stark remarks.

_Maaaaaaa,_ _this dull topic again…_ Shigure, with his elbows sticking out like chicken wings, cradling the back of his head. Aya gasped in mock surprise. Easy for Gure-chan to say, being the favorite…

Shigure grinned, toothy and wild, and Hatori carefully picked a piece of his bento up and brought it to his mouth. Omelette, again.

_Everyone knows Hari’s is the best_ Shigure teased, leaning forward and suddenly shoving Hatori’s back so he nearly gouged his eye on his chopstick. _Mothers always want a child of the dragon, it just sounds the best_.

Hatori grimaced. His own mother never looked proud, only perplexed.

His parents were older. They were quiet, unglamorous, part of the older sect that knew their place with certainty and accepted it with grace and no argument. His father was mild and never moved. It wasn’t until Hatori began to inherit his _gifts_ that he began to understand why.

Until then, he sometimes thought they didn’t even care, or were imagining something else entirely every time they were together. Some other family, some other mother father and son sitting at a table, or going out for a Sunday drive.

When people remarked on his status his mother, her hair a dull gray pile on her head, would simply cover her mouth and bow here head.

“Oh, yes,” she’d say, like she’d forgotten what a dragon even was.  


* * *

  
  
Hatori broke himself out of shallow sleep, like he heard something.

He had to fumble around for a moment, trying to reach his watch on his bedside table. Something he’d eaten must have been making him restless, or the heat.

There’d been another night he’d found himself bolt upright in bed, yukata a tight, terrifying, tangle around him. He’d helplessly put his hands over his chest. Hot tears he couldn’t help sprang and slid down his face. As he adjusted to the room and the night and his presence, he understood that he was being overwhelmed by inconsolable grief.

His heart was hacked at over and over with the same sad refrain of _stay._

_Stay with us_ , he thought. _Please_. _Please stay_. He was begging it, but it was useless. The dim light he was calling after was drifting down below the horizon, no matter what he said. When he opened his mouth bubbles erupted. He choked on the water – briny and slimy with kelp. Usually, when he dreamed of the ocean he felt very calm, but now he was drowning. He clutched his own throat. His legs thrashed and fused together and wriggled, serpentine, and his jaws roared open in a primal sound he loathed.  
  


* * *

 

Momiji nearly kicked the door open, the thing rattling on its track. He stood there, chest heaving, eyes dilated. His hair was laid across his forehead, damp with sweat and his shirt clung to him, hugging his hips and his waist. He’d run through the sprinklers near the house again, but this time not with leisure, or even the amusement of upsetting the housekeeper and tracking water all over.

“Hatori,” Momiji said.

Hatori stared at him from across the room in a wondrous and rare shock. It was though he couldn’t place him – like he was a stranger.

Hatori thought of one whose head had rested in his lap not so long before this. He was sleeping, clever enough to talk his way around his bed time. He curled on his side, snug against him, hand touching Hatori’s knee while Hatori sat and listened to Shigure’s clamoring chatter. He smoked, and caressed the velvety warm cheek and his hair.

He thought of Shigure’s swimmy laughing instead of the words panting out of Momiji’s mouth. He realized his head was bowed, but he couldn’t help it. It felt very heavy. His bad eye was rolling in his skull like a marble –

_You let him call you Hari…?_  
  
Hatori, indulging another pour of sake.

_He’s picked it up from you, you ingrate…the maids scold him for it_.

And they did. Hatori-sama. Such an unbalanced, obnoxious child, didn’t he know any better? Hatori was a doctor. He was _esteemed_. Beloved – to be heckled by _that boy_ – whose own mother would have rather forgotten him…

Hatori carried him to bed so many times after nights like those, Momiji nestled into his neck, arms around him, mumbling he wasn’t tired. Couldn’t he sleep with Hatori after they had a bath? His room had a ghost.

_Just this once, Hari…_

Now it hurt to look. He felt a low pooling disgust, a discontent…a whirlpool of betrayal.

“Hatori!” Momiji cried, and Hatori lifted his head again, hesitantly. He looked out at anything else. The maple was rustling, he could hear it, in the breeze crossing the yard. A cloud of sand rolled in the sun.  
  
Momiji’s hands balled into angry fists at his sides and his face was red -  

The curse writhed and paced in Hatori’s chest, and the fury rose up in him through every vessel, old and pained. There was only one person it owed loyalty to, it reminded him.

 “I!” Momiji stopped, looked at the floor. He was feeling it too, Hatori could tell. “I wanted to come here. I wanted to tell you that I think I want to go to school now. I want to go far away from here...” his voice was rushing and running together. “I want to go to Germany maybe – to be with my mother’s family – they haven’t even met me and,”  
  
“You should,” Hatori ground out, and they both had to pause at the words because they sounded so hateful. They bellowed, shook the eaves of the house, even though nothing grew that loud emerging from Hatori’s mouth.

“You should,” the words were stronger now and calmer, his usual self, the smoke in his throat and nose swallowed. “You should be free to do whatever you wish.”

He felt himself hinge at the waist, bowing. His hair fell down, flopping towards the floor. His hands clenched his knees. His good eye stared at the ground. There was nothing here. It was gone. Forest tracks covered by deep, deep snow. Even hounds couldn’t catch the scent.  

“I’m so glad for you,” he said, and he allowed himself to mean it. A final act of love. “You deserve happiness. You deserve to be free of this place…” He should run as far as he could. The ship was already beginning to sink, and who knew what would become of any of them – why stay and witness the wreckage.

The snarl of cruelty, the evilness of what he was, whispered that he had already stayed too long. They were no longer the same – there was an outsider now. Other.

“You deserve this,” he said again, still bowed, and in that moment it was unclear who he was speaking to: Momiji, or himself.   


* * *

 

Momiji was turned on his side, sweating.

“How am I so sick, Hari?” he whispered.

“You go to a school with many other boys,” Hatori said, putting the things neatly back on the tray.

Momiji squinted, brows furrowing.

“Are you going to be sick again?” Hatori touched his head, the back of his neck. It was still very hot.

Tears squeezed out of Momiji’s eyes and he shook his head stubbornly.

“I don’t want to,” he sobbed, but then suddenly, was up on his elbows. Hatori watched him retch bile, panting and crying loudly.

He cried, pathetically, while Hatori set the pan down and covered it with a dishcloth. Hatori rubbed his back and his shoulders, patiently wiped the snot and tears away and made him swish his mouth out with water and lemon.

Momiji cried and cried, exhausted.

“Hari!” he sobbed, “Hari I hate it! I can taste it and it’s so bitter!”

“Shhh,” Hatori said, petting his back. “Do you know the old argument? The Chinese believe the rabbit in the moon makes medicine.”

Momiji coughed, looking up at him with fevered eyes, mouth shaking.

“In Japan,” Hatori said quietly, stroking his head, moving the wet hair from the nape of his neck under his pajama collar. “They believe it’s pounding mochi.”

There was a long silence, Momiji swallowing and squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to be sick again.

“What flavor?” he said, and Hatori stopped for a moment, considering.

“Red bean,” Hatori said and Momiji nodded. 

“I like strawberry,” he whispered.  
  
“I see,” Hatori said. “When you’re feeling better we’ll eat some.”

Momiji moved so that he was closer. The oscillating fan on the floor blew their hair slightly. Hatori lost himself in the feeling of Momiji’s blonde strands tugging through his fingers, and the sound of the birds outside and the fan brushing back and forth, his own head feeling heavy like he was nodding off. He was exhausted from staying up all night, and now it was late morning.

He came home and the housekeeper was desperate; she’d been trying to get ahold of him for an hour.  
  
“ _That boy wandered in!_ ” she cried, clutching her sleeve.

They’d made him leave school because of his fever, he’d lied and said his father was picking him up. He’d rung the house, but Hari was out, and she’d been shopping. So he simply went home as best he could. He’d transformed and crawled under Hatori’s dresser and she was afraid to bring him out thinking he might bite her.

“He might soil the carpet!” she said, hovering over his shoulder. Hatori ignored her.

Hatori, on hands and knees, reached in, scooped his arm and dragged Momiji out, scruffing his neck. The rabbit was soft and yellow and heavy and kicked deliriously, twisting in his hands and stared at him in terror before relaxing entirely in his arms.

Hatori collapsing back and leaning on his bed, pet his soft fur, feeling Momiji’s heaving side against his palm and the too-fast thrum of his heart.

“It’s alright now,” he’d said, talking to him, trying to calm him down so he would revert and he could give him some medication. “I’m looking after you.”

Like the girl in the story, Alice, who dreamed that strange world where she talked to all kinds of animals. Sometimes he couldn't believe it either - this weird existence. How it was allowed to exist, unnatural and fantastic. Rocking the shivering animal in his arms because it needed him, had come running to him. The rabbit that turned into a rabbit-eyed boy.   


* * *

 

  
Momiji was in town for weeks, and hadn't been by. Hatori wondered, distantly, if he ever would. 

He wouldn't blame him; what was there to be said? What could he possibly want visiting his old and charmless cousin. The one who spoke to him with no sympathy, who was as arguably responsible for his pain and suffering as the rest of them. 

He couldn't sleep. He had dreams about finding rabbits caught in traps. Not the cartoonish ones on television, but little wire snares. 

He tried to free them, but with his eye so bad he couldn't find the knots to untangle them. 

 

* * *

 

He must have been dreaming, now, as well.

Momiji stood in the doorway to his house, looking at him.

“Can I come in?”

Was it now, or was it years ago? Hatori decided it must have been present. The energy fanning off of the young man before him had been so different before. He’d been petrified, then _A prey animal_ , Hatori thought. _Trembling_. Just another person now, common in the shadow of the creature that was in front of him.

A boy before a dragon. Now, they were both only what they saw. It wasn’t much on Hari’s part, to be fair – he wasn’t becoming the libertine Shigure was in his age. 

Hatori stared at him, and Momiji stared back, brow furrowed, as though he was puzzled.

Had he changed so much? Or was it that nothing had changed at all.

“Of course,” Hatori said dryly. _You never bothered asking before… no one asked when they dumped you here, time and time again…_

Momiji took his shoes off and placed them neatly beside the door and then stepped into the cool shade of his back room.

He straightened, chin out.

“You’re long overdue for an examination…” Hatori said, falling back on the familiar script. He busied himself with phantom work at his desk.

“No,” Momiji said, and his voice was anxious. Trying to sound deeper or more even. More adult. “I wanted…I just came to see you, and maybe talk a little, Hatori. I promise it won’t take long.”

Hatori mulled over him, his height. How much he probably weighed, but still slender… a little round-faced from college drinking and poor diet. Europeans ate so much bread…He was wearing a great deal of jewelry and his ear was pierced in several more places. His clothes were as curated as ever, though the palette was more refined.

“Go ahead then,” Hatori said.

“I wanted to say I’m,” Momiji took a breath and Hatori stilled his rifling. “I’m…”

Hatori lifted his head and met his eyes.

“I’m so thankful, Hatori-sensei.”

Hatori froze in place. 

Of all the things he had imagined, that was the last thing he could have expected. Hatori-sensei. So odd and formal it felt like a sound he hated, like Styrofoam or chewing. Was that his college education speaking? Did he fancy him some professor now? An intellectual?  
  
Hatori stared speechlessly as Momiji continued. 

“Thank you for caring for me – for always caring for me, even when I was a burden – I’m,” he was talking so fast, as usual, and his words were stilted, all his plans left behind. His fists clutched the material of his pants. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “For leaving the way I did, for being so cruel to you.” He grit his teeth around the words, fighting tears.

“I’m sorry, Hari!"

Hatori's hands were shaking slightly. 

"You must have felt so abandoned! I always told myself we would stick together – we would always be with one another! I thought I would be strong enough to face it, but I was so…I didn’t know then exactly what I was feeling-" he took a wet breath. 

“I was so ashamed of myself, too ashamed to call you,” Momiji said. “But I’ve grown up now and I wanted to show you that I can be responsible – that I’m not useless like I was when I was a child. I've done well at school, and I've looked after myself -that you could have your own life - ”

Hatori's heart thumped in his temple, behind his eye. What was he talking about? 

“Thank you!” Momiji yelled, in a way that shattered something in the room, in the air between them like the swing of a baseball bat. “Thank you for being the dragon! For being my partner! I was so lucky! I was really so lucky that it was someone like you! I'm - I'm glad that we were together. That we got to be together, despite everything -!"

Hatori couldn’t move, or speak. If he’d tried, he’d find that his throat was blocked. If he took a step he’d wobble like a feeble old man – his old vertigo might overtake him, he’d get weak and sink to a knee.

He was very warm in his suit and his doctor’s coat. Momiji carelessly left the door open and it was green and hot behind him, the sun spilling over the bamboo and the fence.

Momiji lifted his head, searching his face, brow furrowed. He was very bright in the sunlight.

Hatori struggled.

He pawed at his bad eye. His other hand clenched around a piece of paper, wrinkling it beyond repair.

“Is that all you are? Thankful? You've come all the way to tell me that?”

 “Hatori?” Momiji said. His voice was meek and wavering.

Hatori swallowed.

“Close the door, you’re letting the air conditioner out,” he managed.

Momiji didn’t move.

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to pay back all the money you owe me,” Hatori continued. “Or to pick up after yourself…”

His hand was over both his eyes now, his shoulders bent. He felt suddenly so tired, like he couldn’t hold himself up. As though he’d been holding something in for so long and just now letting it subside.

“You cause so much trouble,” was all Hatori could say. “For everyone, all those years, and caused so much worry for the people you’re so dear to,” his voice broke. It was strange, admitting it was real. That what was between them wasn’t just a duty, or a figment of his imagination, or some hulking falsehood they’d constructed. "You disappear for four years and don't bother to let me know how you are, or what you're doing - if you're eating correctly or getting sleep or maintaining your studies -"

“I’m sorry, Hari,” Momiji said, and he was much closer. “Hari? Hari please don’t cry, or I’ll cry too -”

He already was.

Momiji’s fingers pried Hatori’s hand from his face.

“Hari, did I worry you? I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around Hatori’s neck. “Hatori,” he said, squeezing. “I'm sorry. I love you most, Hatori. I’ve always loved you the most, and I had to bother you and worry you because of it, so you see…that day...”

There wasn’t a memory to compare it to as Momiji trailed on. Not even Kana, or Akito. Not Tohru.

Let’s eat together again, he said. Let’s sleep next to each other. I want to eat red bean mochi. I want to wash your back. I want to fall asleep with my head in your lap. How badly he wanted him to say "stay". Don't go. Even if the curse was broken - even if they had nothing in common anymore - please stay. But, of course, Hatori couldn't. He was too gentle, and too generous.

Hatori was too willing to give up for the sake of others, even when there was so much to leverage - the years they spent beside one another regardless of the gossip, or what others saw as incompatibility. Hari couldn't be selfish that way, and Momiji knew it so well because it was what he cherished, what he dared to love. 

“I was lonely too,” Momiji said. “I was so lonely, Hari. I couldn’t sleep without hearing you snore.”

There were rooms full of flowers, Hatori thought suddenly. He could see the future where Momiji’s arms were full of them when he walked in, trailing blossoms behind, tracking them in the house. 

There was a great heave inside him, like shedding of a winter coat, or a skin.

That thing that had suited him was now at his feet and something new and naked stood in its place.

He wrapped him in his arms tightly, a coil, so he wouldn’t spirit off again and leave the big hollow ringing in his heart. Four years apart had been an eternity, the winding end of that long dream they'd shared. A dream with moments as good as horrible - a whole other life clasped between them, living on in memory inside of their current ones. 

He said nothing, as usual. He pushed his face into his hair. Momiji was tall enough he could rest his chin on the top of his head, but he let his face turn towards him so his bad eye rested against his skull, closed. 

Momiji tilted, their cheeks brushing.

“Hari…” he began, and Hatori smiled. Momiji smelled faintly of oranges.  
  
“You should buy a new rug, _really_ – Hari, _honestly._  I'm gone for four years and you can't manage anything - ”

Hatori turned towards his whisper and their foreheads touched. Momiji’s hand went against the hair at the nape of his neck. He brushed his hair back from his face for a moment, looking at his eyes.

"Is it unfair to you?" Hatori asked, sincerely. "To be so ill-fated and stuck with someone so serious - such an oblivious older man -"

Momiji's mouth twisted into a smile. Stupid, his expression said. Didn't he at least recognize destiny?  
  
He would have to explain the Romanticism later. There wasn't anyone else to be with - nowhere else to go. It was terribly inevitable, like summer, or the first biting wind of winter after that. 

“Hari," he said instead, giving him a mocking stern look. "You desperately need a haircut." 


End file.
